


Fates entwined

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Series: Fates entwined [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Blood and Injury, F/M, Romance, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shapeshifter imprints on Thorin and romance eventually blossoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amariel

There were strange scents in the forest that night, and a black wolf edged cautiously through the trees toward the source of the orange glow that lit the remains of the destroyed homestead. Only the glitter of her eyes separated her from the darkness as she silently drew nearer to the campfire and the bulky figures that surrounded it. The low hum of their talk reached her ears, an occasional burst of laughter punctuating the conversation, and she took note of the unfamiliar, guttural language, the beards, the compact, powerful bodies.

_Dwarves._

She had encountered dwarves only rarely, and watched them with curiosity and not a little amusement. A cheery fellow in a floppy hat was serving up portions of some kind of stew – the smell of the meat and broth made her mouth water – while a rotund, ginger-haired dwarf sliced bread. Their companions seemed good-natured enough, though there was one, his bald head adorned with tattoos, whom she knew at once for a fierce warrior by his bearing as much as his twin axes. 

Her keen hearing was suddenly riveted by a voice that rose above the others, deep, resonant, authoritative. She searched for its owner, her eyes lighting on a broad form swathed in a pelt of thick fur, with dark hair draped over his shoulders, beads glinting like tiny sparks at the ends of his braids as he moved into the circle of firelight. His face remained shadowed, though she could make out hints of a heavy brow, a stern-set jaw, an angular nose. The other dwarves fell into a hush as he spoke again, and as he stepped fully into the light he raised his eyes, clear and determined, to look across the fire in the direction of the black wolf’s hiding place, unknowingly meeting her gaze.

A sudden force surged through her body like a bolt of lightning, wrenching, jolting, dizzying, and where the wolf had stood, a young woman crouched at the foot of a tree, her fingernails digging into its bark in a desperate bid to steady herself as she gasped with shock and agitation. She looked in wonder back to the dwarf, his voice drowned out by a confused buzzing in her ears, studying his face as though she meant to memorize it. 

_Him. It is him.  
_

At last, shaking her head as though to throw off her disorientation, the girl twitched into her wolven form and dashed away into the forest.

* * *

The dwarves were surrounded. Wargs and their dreaded riders closed in from all sides, and the company closed ranks, weapons drawn in a futile effort to defend themselves against the encroaching orcs. As Thorin scanned the scene, a black animal streaked into view, smaller than the wargs, but fearlessly darting in among them. Kili reflexively raised his bow to take aim at the creature, but Thorin raised his hand to signal a halt. 

The wolf, as he now knew it, took a stand between the dwarves and their enemies, snarling and baring her teeth at the lead rider’s warg, neatly dodging its angry, snapping jaws before turning to run toward a large boulder at the dwarves’ backs. She stopped to stand at its base, giving a rough, distressed bark. Gandalf eyed her keenly, an intrigued expression crossing his face, and he hurried to where she stood just as she leapt into a crevice in the boulder, landing in a narrow gulley at the bottom of a steep slope. Another agitated bark echoed against the stone, and Gandalf turned back to the helpless company.

“This way, you fools!”

* * *

One and two at a time, the dwarves slid into the gulley, and the wolf waited anxiously, looking for their leader. Last of all, as the trumpeting of elvish horns split the air, he appeared, landing with a grunt at the bottom of the stone wall. The company stood in tense silence, listening to the chaos outside, spurred to action by the dead orc tumbling into their midst. They drew back, looking to where the narrow pathway led, and for the first time noticed their unlikely guide.

The wolf dipped her head in a gesture of submission, pawing nervously at the ground, before darting a few steps down the passage. She turned once more, her moss-green eyes imploring them to follow, and disappeared around a corner. Behind her, she heard the shout of the fierce, bald dwarf.

“I cannot see where the pathway leads…do we follow it, or no?”

Another voice echoed in the gulley. “Follow it, of course!”

She stopped to wait for them at the overlook, beside a rippling waterfall where she quenched her thirst, splashed in its pool, shook the shimmering droplets from her fur. The dwarves stumbled out into the sunshine, looking with amazement at the steepled roofs and airy archways of Lord Elrond’s domain. 

“The Valley of Imladris,” the wizard pronounced with some satisfaction, adding, “in the common tongue, it is known by another name.”

The one she recognized with fascination as a halfling murmured in answer, “Rivendell.”

The wizard turned quietly to the wolf, held out his hand to her, and she nosed it cautiously, sniffing the scent of pipe smoke that hung about his robes. He smiled, and patted her head, whispering “lead the way.”

With a prancing step, she whisked about and bounded down the path toward Rivendell.

* * *

“It’s kind of you to invite us…we’re not really dressed for dinner,” Gandalf offered, and Lord Elrond arched an eyebrow dryly.

“You never are.”

The two took their seats along with Thorin at a small table laid for four, where Gandalf shook out his napkin and smoothed it in his lap, observing the empty place setting.

“Are we expecting another?” 

Elrond had opened his mouth to reply when a young woman approached. She was not elvish, that much Thorin could tell, but she was nonetheless striking in her simple gown, with a sleek mane of black hair and alert, moss-green eyes that somehow struck a chord of familiarity in his mind.

“Ah! Amariel,” Elrond smiled, as she clasped his shoulder affectionately before slipping into the empty chair beside him. “Allow me to introduce Gandalf the Grey and Thorin Oakenshield…though it seems you have already met our guests,” he added enigmatically.

Gandalf gave her a knowing smile. “I suspected as much,” he said, “though I was not aware that more than one of your kind remained.” 

Amariel returned his smile, though wistfully. “I have never met another.”

“Forgive me, my lady.“ Thorin, who had watched this exchange with knitted brows and some irritability at being alone in his confusion, spoke at last. “But I am certain that I would have remembered making your acquaintance.”

“Master dwarf, did you not see a black wolf on the path to Imladris?” Amariel answered, the shadow of a playful smile crossing her lips.

“Aye…it seemed to show us the way.”

“Then you have seen me,” she said simply.

Thorin’s eyes widened. “You are…”

“A skin-changer, yes.” The gaze with which she fixed him was open and honest, and yet proud, as though daring him to show disdain for her strange birthright.

He only nodded, his mind a maelstrom of surprise and curiosity at this revelation, yet somehow an uncharacteristic tact rose to the surface of his thoughts, causing him – impulsively, on reflection – to offer, “you showed courage today.”

She seemed pleased with this, and graced him with a more genuine smile, the warmth of which filled him with a foolish desire to coax it forth again as often as he might be able, and it was the discomfort of this sudden thought as much as the fear of divulging the purpose of his quest to his host that caused him to excuse himself when talk turned to the oddity of this ragtag company traveling upon the Great East Road.

Thorin was restless on his bed that night, his mind preoccupied with the black-haired girl. If she had been merely beautiful, he should have slept easy. Thorin had seen his share of beauty, had seen it mask capriciousness or self-absorption or a dull nature, had watched it fade with time and trials. But his thoughts kept returning to the image of the wolf – small, hopelessly outnumbered, but fierce and determined – placing herself between him and his enemies, and he was forced to admit that her brave spirit and quiet confidence stirred long-forgotten emotions in his breast and endeared her to him perhaps more than he would have liked.

* * *

It was early the next morning when Thorin rose, and, seeing that the company were still abed, wandered aimlessly over the many terraces and staircases that traversed Rivendell. He was unreasonably pleased to come upon Amariel seated beneath an arbor in a peaceful grove of trees, so engrossed in a book that she did not notice his presence until he cleared his throat to announce himself.

“Good morning, Master dwarf,” she greeted him pleasantly, a pretty flush coloring her cheeks.

“Please,” he found himself saying, “call me Thorin.”

The smile, again…the one that had haunted his thoughts in the darkness. “Thorin, then,” she amended. “Have you slept well?”

“Very well…thank you,” he lied.

“You are welcome to sit,” she gestured to the bench where she sat, and he inclined his head and took a place beside her. There was silence between them for a moment before Thorin’s curiosity found its voice.

“How did you come to be in Elrond’s household?”

Her eyes looked far into the distance, reflecting the soft light of the newly risen sun. “I was but a babe when I was found near Trollshaws by traveling merchants. They had mercy on me and brought me to Imladris. Lord Elrond, in his wisdom, recognized what I was and, in his kindness, took me in. I have known no other home,” she finished, turning her gaze to meet his.

Thorin nodded, this new knowledge threatening to make him fall at her feet and vow her his protection, but he merely said, “and what of your parents?”

Amariel gave a small shrug. “No one knows.”

“I am sorry.”

“I have no memory of them,” she reminded him. They fell quiet again for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was gentle. “I am told that you are no stranger to loss.”

The slight slump of his shoulders did not escape her notice. “Aye. I have buried my mother, my brother and my grandfather, and my father has long been missing.”

“Forgive me, I would not cause you pain,” she said, dropping her eyes to her book in repentance.

“You haven’t,” he assured her. “Not a day goes by that I do not think of them.”

“Was your brother much like you?” she wondered timidly, and was rewarded with the amused smile that crept across his face and the chuckle that escaped his lips.

“No…no, Frerin was much more carefree, light of heart, always looking for fun,” he answered fondly. “My younger nephew, Kili – the dark-haired one, the archer – is so like him. Frerin and our sister used to cause the most shocking mischief, and I was always trying to keep them in order.” He laughed again, and Amariel was emboldened to join him, fascinated by the transformation of his stern expression.

The sound of rowdy voices abruptly drifted on the air, and Thorin’s smile turned wry. “It seems my companions are awake,” he observed. “I should go to meet them before they rouse the whole city.”

Her laugh was warm. “Indeed,“ she agreed. “Well, I am sure we shall meet again at breakfast.”

“It will be my pleasure,” he said earnestly, and he found himself only reluctantly tearing his gaze away from hers to walk away, unable to resist a last look back at her and finding himself bestowed with one more dazzling smile.


	2. Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shapeshifter imprints on Thorin and romance eventually blossoms.

Dusk was falling as Thorin finished bathing in the cool waters of the river, close enough to hear the bustle of cooking and the gathering of firewood from the camp, but sufficiently removed to allow him solitude with his thoughts. His movements were mechanical as he dressed himself again, his active mind working over the tactics of his quest and his heart weighed down with the loneliness of the seemingly everlasting wilderness through which the company traveled.

A twig snapped abruptly among the underbrush at the forest’s edge, and he crouched to retrieve Orcrist from the ground. Standing slowly, holding the sword in a tensed hand, he growled, “show yourself.”

There was a rustling of leaves, and to his amazement, a black wolf peered cautiously out from the dusky forest. She looked thin, weary, and her movements were tentative, as though unsure of her welcome, but his heart leapt at the sight of her and his sword hung, forgotten, at his side.

“Amariel?” His voice was but a murmur, though it carried hopeful longing to her ears. “Is it truly you, or have I dreamed it?”

The wolf stepped back into the shelter of the trees, her black fur making her all but invisible for a few quiet moments, and suddenly a graceful hand clasped the rough bark of the nearest tree and the familiar face appeared, shyly meeting his gaze from behind its wide trunk.

Thorin’s countenance relaxed into a warmer smile than he had worn in all of these grueling days since leaving Rivendell. He waited for her to emerge from her hiding place, but still she lingered.

“Will you not come closer? Let me see you?”

Her cheeks darkened with a flush. “I am unclothed.”

He snatched up his heavy coat that still lay draped over a large rock and approached, averting his eyes, to hold it out to her, feeling her take it from his hand. She soon stood before him, the fur collar of the coat snug around her neck as she held it closed with her crossed arms.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin asked, and she dropped her gaze to the pebbly ground between them, hesitation pinching her features. At last, she looked into his face again.

“I had to know that you were safe,” she confessed.

A warmth filled him with her admission. “Amariel,” he began fondly, but his attention was arrested by his notice of her bruised, bloodied feet. His eyes returned worriedly to hers. “You’re hurt.”

Amariel gave a small shrug, shaking her head. “I have traveled far, and quickly. It is nothing.”

“Please, sit,” he gestured to the rock where his coat had lay. “Let me tend to you.”

He disappeared into the woods in the direction of the camp and soon returned bearing a basin of water warmed over the fire, clean rags, and a small pot that contained an ointment with a strong, herbal scent. He knelt before her and with gentle hands placed her feet in the basin, looking anxiously to her when she drew in her breath sharply at the sting of the water on her torn skin, but she gave him a bracing nod, and all was silent but the chirp of insects in the twilight as he carefully began to clean away the dirt and dried blood.

She marveled that hands so powerful could be so tender in their ministrations, and as he poured water over her skin and wiped it clean, she studied his handsome face, the drape of his dark hair, the movement of the muscles in his forearms. So lost was she in the luxury of observing him to her heart’s content after long days of wondering and worrying that she was startled when he spoke again.

“Does Elrond know you’ve come?”

“He does,” she nodded, pausing for a moment before adding, “he was against it…but he understands that there are some instincts among my kind that cannot be ignored.”

Thorin’s look was quizzical, but he returned his attention to his task. “Show me your hands.”

She held them out, and his face contracted with concern at the sight of them, their state similar to her feet. He took her small hands into his large ones and began to wash them with long, slow strokes of his fingers over her palms that stirred strange flutters in her stomach. 

Lifting one foot from the basin at a time, Thorin dried her skin and applied salve to her wounds before wrapping each neatly with a rag. His eyes were kind as he looked up to her with an encouraging smile, deftly securing the binding of the second foot. “That should do nicely. Oin can look at them tomorrow to check their healing.”

“Thank you, Thorin.” Stirred by a curious, affectionate impulse, she reached to graze his bearded cheek with her fingertips.

It seemed to her that the light in his eyes became softer, and his hand that still cradled her foot moved slowly to caress her calf before coming to rest gently on her knee. At the slight but unmistakable tension of her body, however, he immediately withdrew.

“Forgive me,” he begged. “Have I offended you?”

She quickly shook her head. “No. It is only that…” she trailed off, abashed, before admitting, “I am unaccustomed to a man’s touch.”

He sat back on his haunches, regarding her with a solemn look. “You need never fear me, dear one,” he promised. “I would sooner cut off my hand than take advantage of you.”

Amariel nodded, her expression warming. “I would not have come if I did not trust you.”

He looked relieved, and ventured, “may I ask you something?“

"Of course.”

“Of what instincts did you speak before, when you talked of Lord Elrond’s objections to your coming?”

She paused, weighing her words, at last saying slowly, “it often happens among my people…Lord Elrond explained it to me once as one soul recognizing another.”

Thorin saw reluctance in her face, and found that his heart had begun to drum insistently against his ribs as he waited for the conclusion she withheld.

“It is why I drove Gandalf back to you when the trolls had captured the company, why I led you to the safety of Imladris…why I followed you here. The first time I saw you, I knew,” she said at last, her eyes searching his. “I knew you were the one I was born to find…the one I would die to protect.”

Tentatively, he reached for her hand and met no resistance, and cradled it in both of his as though holding something precious and fragile, finding that he scarcely trusted his own voice. “I can only strive to be worthy of your care, ghivâshel.”

The emotion behind the unfamiliar word needed no translation. The smile he had dreamed of on these lonely nights lit her face, found its reflection in his own, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers before standing to lead her to the warmth and light of the camp. Soon, she was clothed in one of Ori’s spare tunics and ensconced in a seat close to the fire, enjoying an enthusiastic welcome from the company and a generous serving of the evening’s stew while Thorin watched her with a gaze that was both wondering and content.

His eyes were closed that night, though sleep eluded him as he lay on his bedroll listening to the rumble of snores from his companions, when a soft movement nearby drew his attention. His hand instinctively gripped his sword’s hilt, but relaxed when he saw that Amariel knelt at his side, beautiful even in the shapeless, borrowed tunic, her eyes questioning in the moonlight. Wordlessly, he lifted the edge of his blanket, and she slipped beneath it to lie close beside him. The swell of his heart to feel the warmth and softness of her in his arms nearly took his breath away, and he closed his eyes once more to press a grateful kiss to the crown of her head, welcoming sleep for as long as it might allow him to shelter her.

* * *

Amariel paced restlessly in the tiny cave among the crags of Erebor’s foothills, troubled by the sounds of combat that echoed in the valley. 

She had fled to this hiding place when it had become unbearable to watch Thorin rage and threaten, to sleep alone in the cold chamber he no longer visited, to stand a helpless witness to his descent into the throes of the madness that gripped him. Now, battle raged around his beloved mountain, and yet he remained barricaded behind the makeshift wall that closed the stronghold’s gate.

Suddenly, above the noise of the fighting, the sound of a horn reached her ears…clearer, richer, more musical than the horn that signaled the Defiler’s forces, and the clamor in the valley faded into an expectant silence. Amariel ventured to the mouth of the cave just in time to hear the clang of the great bell and the thunderous crash that accompanied the toppling of the heavy stones that blocked the gate of Erebor.

“Thorin,” she murmured in wonder.

From her vantage point she could just glimpse him, along with Dwalin, Fili, and Kili, mounted on Dain’s massive rams as they threaded their way up the narrow path to the summit of Ravenhill. Amariel cast an indecisive glance back at the meager possessions she’d brought with her to the cave, pondered her position. She could stay here in relative safety, wait out the battle without needlessly putting her life at risk.

She turned back to gaze over the field of battle, thinking of Thorin riding out to face the Defiler. He would surely be exhausted, underfed, his body and mind weakened by the ravages of the gold sickness, facing his nemesis at the height of Azog’s power, and her heartbeat became painful in her chest at the specter of Thorin’s doomed charge. With a deep breath, she began to remove her clothing, and moments later, a black wolf picked its way quickly down the slope, racing in the direction of Ravenhill. 

* * *

Thorin had made his decision where he lay, alone on the ice with Azog bearing down on him.

It was only a matter of letting go, of releasing the tension on Orcrist that held Azog’s blade at bay…of allowing the cold metal to sink into his chest and praying for the strength to use his last breaths to deliver the pale orc to his own death.

It would be quick, he reflected, and in the next instant scolded himself with the rebuke that a son of Durin ought to scorn the fear of death.

Above all, he tried not to think of her. He pushed the picture of Amariel’s face from his mind, ignored the aching wish in his breast that he might have seen her one more time. She would be well on her way to Rivendell by now, another person whose love and loyalty he had held cheap in his foolish lust for gold.

He steeled himself, his pulse quickening as he prepared to loosen his grip, but a sudden blur of black flashed into his vision. The weight he had struggled to hold back abruptly lightened as Azog straightened himself to stand, bellowing in pain and rage while the wolf that clung to the orc’s shoulders bit him savagely, tore at his flesh with her claws.

Thorin gathered his wits to roll and scramble to his feet, and as Azog flailed in a futile attempt to seize the wolf, to throw her off, Thorin stepped forward and thrust Orcrist into the orc’s torso. There was a sickening rasp of metal on bone as he drove the blade upward to the creature’s heart, and Azog gave a roar and stumbled to his knees. The wolf was jolted from her perch, slipping low on his back, and with a final, convulsive movement of concentrated vengeance, Azog flung his arm to spear her in her side with the wicked blade that served him in place of his lost hand.

Her agonized yelp pierced the air, and time seemed to slow as Thorin watched Azog toss her away, like a child’s doll. Her feet scrabbled on the slick surface, trying to find purchase to stand, but her effort subsided and she lay still, whimpering. The orc slumped, pitched forward onto the ice and moved no more, and the only sound in the chill silence was Thorin’s own, anguished cry.

“No! _No!_ ”

* * *

Amariel’s limbs lengthened, straightened. The wolf’s long snout receded and the coat of black fur melted away like frost in the sunshine, revealing skin ashen with pain and loss of the blood that stained the ice beneath her. She heard the clatter of Thorin’s sword where he dropped it as he knelt beside her, felt the warm weight of the heavy coat he stripped off, swaddling her with it, gathering her into his arms, heedless of the crimson blot spreading to his clothes.

“Why did you do it?” He was frantic, almost angry. “Why did you do it?”

She groped for his hand and found her own fingers clasped in his tight grip.

“I’m tired,” she murmured.

“No, Amariel, listen to me,” he said urgently. “You must stay awake. Listen to my voice, Amariel.”

Her eyes rolled, their lids briefly fluttering shut, and her cheeks stung as he slapped them in his desperation to urge her to consciousness.

“Please, my love.” His voice was trembling now, splintering with the beginnings of a sob. “Please.”

_I’m trying, Thorin._

Only she didn’t seem to be able to say the words out loud. Either the world around her was fading away or she was – she couldn’t be sure which – and Thorin’s pleading voice was the last thing remaining as she sank into welcome, painless darkness.

* * *

_Thirsty._

The thought pricked at her consciousness. Her mouth felt as though it was full of hot sand, and her tongue was heavy, dry, burning with thirst. Her eyelids were heavy, as well, but with a supreme effort she dragged them open, blinking slowly to focus her vision.

Amariel lay on the soft bed in her chamber in Erebor, gazing up at its canopy of faded damask. Her body felt sluggish and sore, and she felt the stiffness of a thick bandage on her side, where a dull pain throbbed. Turning her head, she found Thorin seated in a chair, asleep with his head resting in his arms on the bedcovering beside her, his dark hair fanned over the blue fabric. She moved her fingers experimentally, extending them to stroke a lock of his hair, and he woke with a start, looking into her open eyes as though he feared he might be dreaming.

The smile he loved, though weak, curved her lips, and his eyes filled with grateful tears.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, “thank Mahal.”

“Water,” she rasped, her voice cracking with disuse.

“Of course,” he said quickly, stilling her feeble efforts to sit up. “Let me help you, you are weak yet.”

Thorin put an arm around her shoulders, and though he raised her gently, she winced as the pain in her side sharpened. He held the cup to her lips while she drank long and gratefully, water dribbling from its sides down her chin, and dabbed her face with his sleeve as he carefully settled her again on her pillow.

“How long have I been asleep?” she wondered.

“Six days,” he answered, taking her hand in both of his, “Oin gave you sedatives to allow your body to try to heal. You had lost so much blood…he wasn’t sure if you…if…” His voice failed him, and his head slumped as he gave himself over to the tears he had mastered every day since he’d brought her, bleeding and unconscious, back to the mountain. “Forgive me,” he wept, pressing her hand to his damp cheek. “I bear the blame. All of it.”

Amariel’s own eyes welled to see the weight of grief and guilt he carried, and she stroked her thumb over his hand, squeezed it with as much strength as she possessed, encouraged him with a tender look when at last he met her gaze again, his face washed with tears.

“I made my own choice, Thorin,” she reminded him. “Do not take it upon yourself.”

“You should have stayed away,” he reproached her gently. “He nearly killed you.”

“He would have killed you.”

“I was prepared for my death.”

“I could never be.”

A begrudging smile played about his lips, and he shook his head, with a final,  loud sniffle. “You are a stubborn creature,” he sighed, with undisguised admiration.

“Nearly as stubborn as you,” she answered, a spark of mischief creeping into her tone, weary though she was.

Thorin pressed a fervent kiss to her fingers and looked solemnly at her. “Stay with me, Amariel. Stay with me forever,” he pleaded. “Be my love, my Queen. Be mine to care for and protect, as I am yours.”

“Forever is a long time, Master dwarf,” she murmured.

“Aye, and I should be unwilling to settle for even one day less,” he smiled fondly, smoothing her tousled hair away from her face. “What say you…can you give yourself to a stubborn fool who loves you?”

“With all my heart,” she nodded, her wan face recovering a hint of its radiance with a joyful smile. “You must remember, I loved him first.”


End file.
